It was cold.
Matthew blinks once, noticing that the fire in his grate had burned down to soft embers; he'd been watching it for so long that it had nearly ceased to exist. The cold in the room wasn't unbearable nor unexpected, being that it was the end of February. Matthew's bones knew winter like a consistently abusive partner: the overall experience wasn't pleasant, but at least it was predictable.
Matthew also knew that there were another two months left yet until the air sweetened and the ground loosened from rock and frost into yielding fields and fertile growth. Normally, he didn't mind winter, being that it was an unstoppable force and hating the unstoppable just seemed utterly fruitless to him, but this time around, something in his chest yearned for spring so hard he ached.
Tired, he thinks, pushing himself up from the bearskin rug with a sigh – his breath was becoming visible, and while he wasn't as suspect to cold as most seemed to be, it didn't mean he reveled in it.
When he regained his center of gravity something within him shuddered, like agitation along his border. The sudden jolt of unease told him he knew what was coming, and since that was the case there was only one –
The knock at his heavy door told him that he was right, and the only thing left was confusion. Please no, Matthew thinks, eyes closing. He was strong, all right, he was still confident… but some part of his inhale still tasted like burned, wet wood and cooked meat and it made him ill.
Another knock. Matthew debates ignoring it totally, but he would know that Matthew was at home due to the dying fire in the grate and the subzero temperatures outside. Not to mention, Matthew was more or less a homebody when he wasn't out driving stupid marauding idiots out of his country.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
Matthew turns toward the fire for a moment, takes his time in selecting a log next to the pile, and tosses it on the coals. The dry wood doesn't catch immediately, but Matthew spends a few moments watching the undulating glow of the coals tease at the loose fibers of wood dotting the log like fur: they curl and smoke.
Finally, gathering his courage in his fists – in case he has to use them, he doesn't like to fight but he will – he walks to the door, pulls in the latch, and yanks the heavy oak slab back.
The pile of furs and wool that greets him is nearly unrecognizable in its bulk, save for the two glaring eyes peering out from under the black bear fur of his headwrap.
Matthew glares in return at his brother for a few swift moments, before the numbing cold starts to banish away any hint of warmth his fire is creating.
"We can have this conversation inside or out," America says, and Matthew knows that his brother's teeth are clenched against chattering, "and I don't suppose you have a preference?"
America's banality makes the slowly rising urge to throttle the other flare for a moment, before fading. No more fighting, the tired part of him whispers, and instead of punching his southern neighbor between his eyes – the only part of America made visible – he steps aside and lets him in.
America seems to accept Matthew's silence willingly as he walks across the unfinished wooden floors – such a small luxury, really, but Matthew's glad it's not a dirt floor when America drags a small snowstorm into the house after him. Matthew shuts the door behind him and doesn't say a word as America's furs, wraps, wools, and felts drop to the floor like onion layers peeled from the root.
Matthew's lip quirks. He knows America doesn't like the cold. He also knows that America is far too proud to remain bundled up when Matthew merely wears a homespun shirt laced closed at the neck. America will be cold, and Matthew takes a small amount of pleasure in knowing his brother's discomfort.
When America steps out of the last layer, Matthew lets his eyes move over his brother's form slowly; this is the first time he's seen America since the other declared independence from England when he hasn't been in military uniform. Dressed at his ease, his brother looks remarkably similar to himself in a cream shirt and undyed breeches that give way to soft leather boots.
Matthew raises an eyebrow at the stoneware jug that America carries in his left hand, two long fingers looped inside the handle at the top, the stopper sealed with wax.
"I brought cider," America says, raising the jug up slightly, as if in a peace offering.
Peace. The treaty had been signed a mere two weeks earlier, setting off a week's worth of rampant elation in Matthew, the inhabitants having beaten off the invading Americans, the British having gone home, life having a chance at not being so bloody for a breath of time.
If Matthew had any say about it, it would never be that bloody again. And even though this brother was the one who came screaming into York with torches and bayonets and so much anger, Matthew takes the jug from him.
"Thank you," he says, voice calm with politeness. He crosses the room to the fire – having stoked itself from the dry wood and the draft that had been pulled through the room, and settles the cider down in the cooling embers at the edge of the fire to heat it.
There is more silence, and Matthew hears the whisper of America's boots against his floor yet does not move. It might have been entirely possible for this brother-turned-revolutionary-turned-marauder to murder him, here – he knows his brother's strength, he knows what can happen when America gets that spark of insanity in his eyes – but there is something in Matthew's being that knows, just like he knows the winter, that it won't happen.
Not today. It might have happened two months prior, it might happen two months from now, but it won't happen today.
Instead, two cold fingers brush gently against Matthew's shoulder, as if warning him about the touch, before they slide up the side of Matthew's neck, push firmly against the underside of his jaw, and tilt's Matthew's jaw slightly back.
Matthew allows the touch to continue, his head tilting with the suggestions of America's fingers until they look into each other's eyes, mirrored faces with mismatching irises.
America's eyes move once down Matthew's body, and then up, but his fingers do not shake. "We need to talk," he says, and his voice is unusually firm.
Matthew doesn't quite know how to deal with this apparition before him. The last time he had talked to America in any sense the other had been blazing with righteous anger against England, and nothing Matthew did or said could get his brother to shut up about taxes or representation. This, he thought, was entirely unusual.
But then Matthew's eyes followed the fingers that were still pressing gently against his jaw, followed the long scar that started at the wrist of his brother's sword hand and moved up America's arm until it disappeared beyond the bend of his elbow.
Matthew was tired. This war had lasted for three years, and he already felt like an old man hobbling across his lands and watching the fire in his grate die to embers. America – America had been fighting both outside forces and inside forces for nearly forty years.
Matthew's gaze traced the creases under his brother's eyes, and was mildly surprised that his brother still managed the fortitude to travel across the plains of Ontario in the dead of winter to deliver cider.
Matthew was tired and America was crazy – but this, at the end of the day, was nothing new.
"Talk, then," Matthew said, finally breaking his self-imposed vow of silence. He stood and crossed the room for mugs with which to decant the cider.
He feels rather than sees America's wry smile on his back. "It's hard to have a conversation when I'm the only one talking," he observes, not moving from his post beside the bearskin rug, standing like a soldier at attention.
"Never stopped you before," Matthew replies, checking the pewter mugs. He crosses back to the fire and puts them on the hearth to heat, right next to the warming jug of cider.
That draws a laugh, and Matthew feels something inside of him hitch – he hadn't realized how long it had been since he heard his brother laugh. He also hadn't realized how much he missed it.
America sank down to the bearskin rug with his old effortlessness, all gangly teenage legs and hidden strength. With one leg curled underneath him and one folded up so America could rest his hands on the knee and his chin on his hands, he offered Matthew a surprisingly beatific smile, and for a strange moment it was as if these past forty years of separation and war had never occurred.
"All right, well, I'll start," America stated, and Matthew rolled his eyes at America's irrepressible smile. "…tell me, Matthew, what you think about Europe?"
Matthew blinked, and turned back to test the temperature of the cider jug, mostly just to give himself time to think. "It's… the center of the world," he replies. America is known for shooting the moon when it comes to odd questions – Matthew's never met anybody else that can throw him off guard as effortlessly as America seems to do.
America's sigh tells Matthew that his response was a little bit less than what the American was hoping for. "It's a cesspool," the American says frankly, causing Matthew to turn and raise an eyebrow.
"Just because you broke England's heart doesn't make you the master of the universe," Matthew replies mildly, expecting the small flicker of anger that goes across his brother's face at the reprimand.
"This isn't about England," America says, spitting the name like it's a curse, and Matthew can feel the swell of America's emotions almost as if it was his own. "It's about not being him."
Matthew busies himself with pulling the wax seal from the stopper – easy now, since it's been warming by the fire. He hums, curious as to the purpose of this visit, and curious as to what his twin has to say.
"We're alone out here," America continues, as Matthew pries the cork from the jug and decants the cider. "Mattie, are you listening?"
Matthew's arm seizes at the use of the familiar name, sending warm cider to slosh against his hand. Wincing, he flicks the hot liquid away.
He hears America stand and approach, those whisper silent boots over rough floorboards. Fingers again at the curve of his jaw, and Matthew at once wishes that America would stop touching him so, and feels goosebumps explode down his body with it.
America's eyes, unusually serious, gaze down at him. "We can't afford to fight."
Matthew's breath snorts through his nostrils, and he finishes pouring the drinks. "I don't know if you've forgotten the entirety of the last three years," he says dryly, "but I believe that you were the one invading me."
Matthew hands one of the warm pewter mugs to America and the other accepts, his lips twisting wryly. "It was the only way to get England's attention," America says at last.
That might have been enough to make Matthew angry, if he had any will to dredge up the energy. Instead, he sips at America's cider – as expected, it's delicious and alcoholic, burning a path of warmth to his stomach.
America's hand reaches out again and it cups along Matthew's jaw once more, leaving the northern country to wonder what America's sudden obsession was with that particular part of his body. America tilts Matthew's head until blue meets straight on with purple. "I didn't blockade St. Lawrence," America reminds him, quietly.
Matthew blinks. That had been one of the great mysteries of the northern front of the war – the main supply route to the city of York was through the St. Lawrence river, which, unfortunately, went straight through American territory. If America had chosen to blockade the river, supplies wouldn't have gotten through that vital artery, and, well –
It would have been bad. But America hadn't, and England had simply chalked it up to a young nation's stupidity. Matthew had been puzzled. Grateful, of course – the river blockade would have ended up starving out a good portion of his population – but puzzled.
"I don't want you to be weak," America continues. He smiles. "Not stronger than me, of course, but… not weak."
Matthew feels himself flood with exasperation. "I should have burned your capital twice," he mutters.
America grins again, lifting his free hand to the collar of his own shirt and puling it down – there, right over his heart, a wound has begun to heal. "We're rebuilding," America says, letting the shirt cover the scar once more. "Better than ever. You should see the new White House, Mattie, it's… it's going to be great." America's expression sobers suddenly, and Matthew wishes that he could shift moods with the ease of his southern neighbor. Matthew knows that America's mood swings are due largely to the inconsistent weather patterns across his territory, but it's still hard to keep up with, regardless.
"I don't want us to be like France and England," America says seriously. "We… we're the New World, Mattie."
Matthew's tongue reaches out to feather across a dry bottom lip, feeling something electrify in the air, but not sure where it's going or what it means. "…what do you want?" Matthew asks.
He watches as America takes a nervous half-breath, and then nearly drops his drink in surprise as warm, cider-wet lips cover his own.
For a few blank seconds the world reels – it's not that Matthew is completely innocent, he's listened to both England and France long enough to know that the two have a fight and fornicate relationship like no other. It's not an uncommon practice for nations to assert dominance in such a manner, especially not after –
Matthew's blood goes cold and he shoves America so far back that both slam into the opposite walls of the log cabin, the entire building shaking, thatch fluttering down from the roof.
"Out," Matthew demands when he can draw a breath. America still looks somewhat dazed – his head had hit the wall when Matthew had nearly thrown him across the room. "How… how…"
While America's admission that he had invaded his very body of land just for the attentions of his former colonial master hadn't brought Matthew to rage, the phantom feeling of lips and the wet residue of America's kiss brought so much fury to his vision that he nearly lost consciousness before he managed to control the anger, the blinding, blinding –
"How dare you," Matthew rumbles, low and dangerous as avalanches in the West. America doesn't move from the wall, and Matthew is too angry to notice if it's from inertia or fear but he also doesn't care as he crosses the room and grabs his brother by the throat.
"I did not surrender to you," Matthew reminds America in a low hiss against his ear. His fingers don't shake against his brother's skin, nor do they press inordinately hard, but it's a warning touch, and Matthew can feel his brother's throat muscles work around a swallow. "You storm my land, you try to…" a moment of cold fear washes through him, the feeling of America sinking its armies into his land, the fear of having parts of him owned by England, owned by America, caught in the middle, can't escape, America's lips against his, can't escape –
"Matthew," America says, the low whisper breaking through Matthew's panic.
Again with the familiarity, Matthew thinks, his grip tightening a little more against America's neck.
"I don't want your surrender," America goes on, and Matthew can feel every rumble of his vocal cords. It gives him distant images of land not yet explored, of trembling coastlines and the salty slap of a vast ocean against rocks. "This isn't about that."
Matthew swallows hard and bores his glare into America's eyes again, before slowly removing his hand from America's throat. His fingers shake.
"I want to…" America bites his lip and Matthew almost smiles at their mutual ineloquence. America may be able to rouse a man to political passion, but he clearly struggles with the other matters of the heart. The fire crackles, and Matthew can feel as well as hear the howl of a February wind outside. "I want to… connect. I've never…"
Matthew rapidly assembles thoughts out of America's broken syllables. He remembers America's revolution, feels the pain of England and the raw fury of America as if it were yesterday and the whole bloody mess had played out in his own head. "When England surrendered, did you-"
"No," America says. His face looks vaguely discomfited at the thought. "I didn't."
It's food for thought, if nothing else. Matthew stands, feeling the constant heat wave from America brush over him. The fire crackles again, the wood collapsing into the embers and it changes the cast of firelight across America's-
Alfred, he thinks, allowing himself to think of the nation in front of him (and below him) as a human entity for the first time in nearly half a century.
Alfred blinks, and leans forward slowly, once more initiating the kiss.
This time, Matthew allows it to happen, pressing forward slightly into the kiss, not accepting it as a defeated colony, but rather reciprocating as a equal nation and the feeling of elation that bursts over his head is like warm rain in spring, like tornados in the West, and it frightens him with the incredible connection it is – he feels everything.
He feels the top of the Arctic ice with it's chilly promise of a passage through, he touches America's shoulder and feels the hot sticky warmth of what the Spaniards had called Florida, there's Alfred's heart beating with the vigor of colonists-turned-Americans, and Matthew feels his own blood, his own people, surge along with it.
Alfred's lips part and it tastes like salt and the sea, and Matthew swallows the groan he surrenders like the rumble of thunder in the mountains. Shaking, curious fingers trail along Matthew's spine and he shivers, and it makes Matthew go hot with cold and then freeze with heat.
It's Alfred who breaks the kiss, and Matthew can see his own dazed expression mirrored in the eyes of the other.
A sudden cold fear, then, and he understands why nations so rarely couple of their own volition – now that he's felt the heat of Alfred's southern coast and Alfred has tasted the ice at the top of Matthew's world, both know there is no turning back. There can be no more war; there can be no more invasions.
Their borders join, the line between them long and indistinct; neither one knows where they end, there's so much unexplored territory between them, so much unknown. And just as their borders touch there is a line formed by their bodies against each other and they open, unguarded.
When their lips meet again Alfred's hand curls tight into Matthew's hair, and Matthew rolls his hips instinctively into Alfred, who gives up another thunder-in-the-mountains moan.
There is no turning back, Matthew thinks, before all coherent thought escapes him entirely.
(end part 1)
Historical notes:
Obviously, this takes place after the War of 1812. It's common parlance that America lost the war, but the entire issue is more complicated than that and the actual answer depends on how you look at it. On one hand, America did get beaten out of Canada, but if you read the reasons why America started the war in the first place, actually annexing Canadian/British territory wasn't one of the reasons. (Of course, the Americans thought that the Canadians would be overjoyed to throw off the British, which wasn't the case.)
America actually did invade Canada to get the attentions of the British. Due to the Napoleonic wars, the British Navy was pressing virtually every male they could get their hands on into naval service, and this included those who were born in Britain and then immigrated to America. America was not pleased that Britain wasn't recognizing America's right to naturalize citizens (also, Britain actually conscripted some American-born Americans as well).
When the war ended, zero concessions were made to anybody. America kept all prewar American land, and Britain kept all prior British land. Actually, the aftermath of the War of 1812 ended in more positive relations between America, Canada, and Britain.
It's still a mystery why the Americans didn't blockade the St. Lawrence river. Weird.
